


Dogs Don't Go to Heaven, Cronus Ampora

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Church Sex, Closet Sex, Closet in a Church Sex, Coffee, Cronus Being a Pushy Bastard, M/M, mild dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cronus is shameless, hounding after Kankri despite the man's vow of chastity. Well, Cronus, things may not turn out the way you were expecting them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogs Don't Go to Heaven, Cronus Ampora

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BugTongue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BugTongue/gifts).



> Just to let you know, this was named "The Devil's Fic" in drafts because I was stuck on exactly 666 words for three weeks. Enjoy.

You would be the first to admit that you are not a religious man; at twenty three, down on your luck, a college dropout with about fifty bucks to your name, you don’t see much in your life that could be called divine and don’t feel the need to thank the lord for shit you’ve never had in the first place. Your life isn’t sad, per se, but it’s certainly been free of miracles, and so the tiny little church in the center of the tiny little town you rolled into like a tumbleweed doesn’t attract your attention much at first.

 

But he does.

 

Oh, _he does_. Such a beautiful thing, even if he is a little on the short side. Vibrant, angry eyes and a perfect snarl, you first see him mad as hell in the town square; he slaps you in the chest with a pamphlet about church news and free coffee and tells you that heathens like yourself aren’t welcome in _this here town_ , and that if you’re going to be staying here, then you need to get your ass on up to church.

 

Except, of course, without the expletives. His speech is almost painfully dry, but god, the way he talks… His voice rolls like a tempest, like the ocean you grew up near, licking up the pitch scale the louder and more frustrated he gets. He can tell you aren’t listening to him. His rage is cute.

 

He punches you when you grab his ass.

 

Now, if he’d gone into a rant about how being gay is a sin, how his most hallowed Father in heaven would strike you down for indulging in a little hide the sausage [if there’s a dude up there, he’s got much bigger  problems to worry about, you think] you could have dealt with that. You’d have turned and rolled on down to the next town, letting the dusty wind steer you along wherever it might. But that’s not his objection, no- the boy’s got a fucking _vow_ , he says, a promise to himself and God, and _sir, your sexual advances are entirely unwelcome and I’d apologize for breaking your nose but I’m really not that sorry about it._

 

You laugh, and take his little pamphlet. Blood covers your lips and chin but it tastes like victory to you, like challenge; a little vow isn’t going to stand between you and that fine ass, no it ain’t.

 

It’s just a matter of wearing him down. You’re a master of dogged persistence, the king of digging your heels in; it’s a siege, is all, except his body is the fortress and the prize is his sexual surrender. You just have to wait, and waiting is something you are exceptionally good at.

 

So, instead of skipping out of this tiny town first come dawn light, you stay. You wake yourself up good and early, you shave, you put on your best clothes, and you walk your ass to the tiny little church in the center of this tiny little town, and sit it right down in the front goddamn row with a cup of the free coffee that had been offered at the door, sipping at your three creams and four sugars and splash of hot chocolate with a shit eating grin on your face. He can’t help but see you when you first walk in, and the red his cheeks turn is gorgeous.

 

He doesn’t speak to you the entire sermon, but then again, he doesn’t speak to anyone; he’s little more than an altar boy, up there for pretty looks and deft hands and not much else because his father is the real show, and you can see the bitterness he feels in the twist of his mouth and the downward cast of his eyes, the way he hesitates just a bit before doing whatever his old man asks.

 

Daddy issues. Fuckin’ classic.

 

You talk to him after church. You turn on the charm, too- you’re entirely, completely, one hundred percent polite and you think that pisses him off more than anything else, really. He keeps looking around, then at you, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to remind you there’s an audience but fuck, you ain’t stupid. You know better than to cause a scene when there are people around.

 

“I’m not interested,” he hisses at you, arms crossed; his bright red sweater matches the spots that form high on his cheeks when you dip your finger in the whipped cream of your free coffee/hot chocolate mixture and lick it off.

 

It’s messy, and sticky, but the pros definitely outweigh the cons- the pros, in this case, being Kankri’s frantic stuttering. He’s such an innocent baby, so unused to such ‘lewd acts’ that even the slightest hint of your interest has him reddening and twisting his sweater in his hands; there’s something intense and focused about his gaze that unnerves you, slightly, but you write it off as simple interest and press a kiss to his cheek, darting off before he can catch you with that vicious right hook of his.

 

Wednesday goes the same. You’ve picked up a job at a local bar, dumping people out on their asses once they’ve had a little too much firewater; it’s not a glamorous job, but it’s an honest one, and you don’t feel as positive you’re about to be smited by an unholy terror when you walk into church the next available opportunity.

 

Once again, coffee. Three creams, four sugars, a splash of hot chocolate, whipped cream. You sit in the front pew, and watch him seethe in the background, licking whipped cream from your lips with a biting little smirk.

 

Day two of interaction goes just as good as day one; as in, it ends with him storming off, furious, clearly three seconds away from strangling you. It’s a nice feeling, knowing he cares enough about your _‘smug, antagonistic, disgustingly trite attitude_ ’ to get so upset over it.

 

You didn’t even have to get yourself sticky, this time- no, it was all in the body language. You’re a fuckin’ expert at body language, if you do say so yourself; just because you ignore it most of the time doesn’t mean you aren’t fluent in the way other people communicate unconscious desires. Him? He leans towards you when you speak. His body is turned towards you, directed at you. He licks his lips, he makes eye contact, his hands reach up to fiddle with his hair before he drops them to twist his sweater in his grasp.

 

He is so fuckin’ into you it isn’t even funny, but all that comes out of his mouth, again, is “I’m not interested!” It’s a lie, you and he both know it. You just have to wait it out.

 

Sunday, again. You see him around town now and then, but he’s elusive, a red blur out of the corner of your eye, a shadow darting along the edge of your vision; he talks to few, engages with fewer. He seems like a lonely guy. When you catch wind of his intolerable preaching, you don’t really wonder why. He’s a verbose annoyance flitting around the town like a hummingbird wearing a jetpack, all speed and drive-by preaching, _this is sinful, this is immoral, this is anathema in the eyes of God._ You think he needs to loosen up; he thinks you need to take a brick to the face. He thinks you need to take a brick to the face so bad, he actually throws one at you, when you corner him behind the tiny drugstore in the center of town.

 

Here you were, just tryin’ to be nice and all, and he flips his shit and calls you one of Satan’s evil tempters, come to relieve him of his vows and shatter his promise to his God. You ain’t got any calls from Satan, lately, but you can’t really deny the accusation.

 

But, yeah, Sunday. Sunday is great; you catch him by the free coffee, make him a drink, and chat with him under the eyes of all and sundry; he’s just as trapped by social convention as you are, and hearing him grit his ‘polite’ responses out between gritted teeth has you laughing, your hand on his shoulder, thumb pressed to the jut of his collarbone.

 

You dream of touching him in other places, that night.

 

You dream of pinning him down and licking his throat, of prying that baggy sweater from his body and running your hands over the slim curves of his waist; you dream of kissing him, of him kissing you back, tugging your hair and arching up against you, pitiful pleas on his tongue, begging you so sweetly to please, please fuck him.

 

You dream of a lot of other things, most not fit for polite company; this makes the next Wednesday harder than ever.

 

Because you are in a crowded place. You can’t touch him like you want to, because this is a busy area, you are surrounded by people, and in this case, it’s a double edged sword. You don’t doubt that in a podunk, open-carry place like this, the second you jump him in plain sight you’ll be riddled with bullet holes; this time, he smirks like he can read your thoughts, and the urge is even stronger.

 

But you are a smart man, and a patient one. You specialize in wearing people down. His resistance cannot outlast your persistence, and it’s with that thought you buckle down and prepare for the long haul.

 

Your job is enough to sustain you, but after a certain point, you can’t keep living in your car; you’re forced to rent out a small, one bedroom apartment, enough to fit your worldly possessions inside. You pick up busking to supplement your income; somehow, you get roped into joining the church band. This, too, is a double edged sword- on one side, you have to dedicate your not inconsiderable talents to praising a messiah you don’t believe in. On the other… you see him more often than you don’t, now.

 

Your clothing choices gradually turn more and more provocative. You start to use cruder innuendos. You start trying to corner him in more secluded areas- this is a gamble. Sometimes it works, and you’re free to tempt him all you like. Sometimes it doesn’t, and you’re stuck somewhere you definitely do not want to be, and he smirks at you like your discomfort is his god given right.

 

He doesn’t punch you again, though.

 

Day after day, you wear on him. Almost a month and a half into your efforts, you’re finally rewarded.

 

You corner him in a dimly lit hallway after evening services. He’s still in his little church outfit, all neatly done up rows of buttons and styled hair, aquiline nose risen high and haughty as he catches sight of you. He’s just as handsome as ever.

 

“I’m not interested,” he says, because this is how all your conversations start, “So if you’ll excuse me-”

 

“You’re not excused.”

 

The words stutter in his throat, his face flushing red with rage as you interrupt him. He really does hate being interrupted- it’s probably why you do it so often.

 

“Cronus Ampora I am _sick_ of putting up with your uncouth attitude and hitherto completely unmatched rudeness. I am done dealing with the likes of you, do you hear me? _Done_ -”

 

You’d imagined, over the past few weeks, what it would be like to kiss him. To shut him up with your mouth, to keep him muffled and subdued with lips and teeth and tongue. You’d imagined it being like kissing a squirmy, toothy eel; you’d been right. He bites at your lips with the ferocity of a wild creature, but presses closer to you all the same, hissing into your mouth as he shoves you hard and pins you back against the wall as though a dam has finally been broken, with surprising strength. You reach up and thread your fingers through his hair, tilt his head to the side with a sharp yank, and kiss him hard.

 

His hands claw at your shirt, shoving up underneath it to dig pointy, neatly trimmed nails into your flesh; he practically crawls up your body, a knee jammed between your legs, teeth digging into your lips, your tongue, the curve of your jaw, like he can devour you whole; you scratch your own hands up his back, yank him close, grind your hips up-

 

And he moans like a two dollar whore, rutting against you needily, just like you’d imagined he would. At his basest nature, he’s human, just like you- and humans were made to breed, made for sexual pleasure, made for physical contact. He’s been denying himself for a long time, but there’s no way he can resist, any longer. You’ve got him right where you want him- pressed up against you, hard as diamond.

 

“Not here-” he gasps, head thrown back as he rocks against you, his thigh pressing up between your legs, hot and solid. He doesn’t say no, or stop, or not now- just _not here_. Even now, even like this, he’s only concerned for his image. You find that a little cute.

 

His hands close around your shirt and he tugs you forward, drags you really; you blink, and you’re in a broom closet of all things, shoved up against the back wall with him pressed against you from behind, his breath hot on your throat, his hands roaming over your chest, his countenance suddenly calm. For some reason, you get the feeling you've been duped. You shake it off, and grind back against him.

 

“‘Ey, buddy-” you murmur, trying to turn around; his grip stops you from moving, his hands clutching you tight, pushing you forward, his body pressing against yours and pinning you to the wall, “Watch it, c’mon, lemme just turn around-”

 

“I think I quite like you like this, Mr. Ampora,” the other man says, voice just a tad breathless, a little high pitched, “It prevents me from having to stare at your smug face the entire time we have intercourse.”

 

His fingers drag down your chest, scratching at your skin as he travels down your body to shove at the hem of your pants, fingers dicking around impatiently with the button. You’re not entirely sure how he thinks you’re going to fuck him like this, but you roll your eyes and shove down your pants for him anyways, letting him fumble with your boxers, his hands yanking them down eagerly.

 

“I suggest you produce some form of lubrication, otherwise this next portion of our illicit affair is going to be very unpleasant.”

 

There’s something about his voice that just makes you shiver, something that makes the hair on your neck stand up in a good way; your cock twitches, and you reach down to give it a little stroke, fingers tugging a travel sized lube bottle from the back pocket of your jeans.

 

“Awh, don’t worry darlin’, I’d go easy on you,” you say, grinning as you go to turn around; his hands push you back, one stroking over the arch of your spine gently as the other snatches the bottle from your fingers.

 

“I’m sure you would, if that were necessary,” he murmurs, amusement audible in his tone; there’s a click, and the slick sound of lube being spread over fingers; you wonder if he’s planning on preparing himself, if he wants to preserve his little vow that much longer. It’s only when you feel something slick and wet and cold against the crack of your ass that you jerk, turning your head around and eyeing his devious little bitchface with something akin to terror lighting up your heart.

 

Things don’t go up your ass. Your thing goes up other people’s asses, not the other way around.

 

“Hey, hey-” you bite out, squirming; his free hand has you pinned chest first to the wall quite thoroughly, his strength rather shocking, for his size. You suppose you always knew he was strong, though- after all, he managed to break your nose with one punch. You just never thought he'd use his strength like this.

 

“Hey now I think you got the wrong idea about what is goin’ on he- _ahhhfuck_ -!”

 

His fingers slide home, two at once, and he’s curling them, pressing them inside you and it sort of burns but mainly just feels really, really fuckin’ _weird_. Like, things ain’t supposed to go up there, okay, that’s where stuff comes out and suddenly you’re on the opposite side of the equation and you’re hard as a rock and moaning like a whore and you’re not quite sure if you enjoy this or  not. It’s just… weird.

 

“Kankri-” you pant out, your hands coming up to claw at the wood your cheek is pressed against, hips stuttering as you try to figure out whether you want to squirm away or press into his hands, “Fuck, waitaminute-”

 

“You wanted to fuck me,” he says, voice ever so enviably serene, “Well, I hope you realize at this juncture that I will not allow something like your cock inside of me. Heaven forbid, I don’t even know where it’s been.”

 

You feel almost insulted, at that.

 

“I will, however, grant your incessant begging for sexual gratification, and I will fuck you into the wall until you’ve decided you’ve had enough.”

 

His fingers twist and curl and press against something that makes you cry out, your spine arching as you press your chest against the wood, your cheek smushed against the hard surface. You’re already rocking back on his fingers, cock drooling precum, hardly able to think- at this point, you’ll let him do anything as long as he presses his fingers up against that spot again.

 

And he does. Jesus christ on a fucking cracker, he does, over and over, driving his fingers into you so hard that you go cross eyed and don’t even notice when he slides another one in. You think you might be drooling- you can’t even tell anymore- but god, it just feels so fucking good-

 

Distantly, you hear Kankri’s voice, but it’s just the up and down rhythm of it, the soft, lilting tone that sounds so condescending when you can understand his words but so soothing when you can’t; nothing but the sound of it is getting through to you, your head clouded up by good feelings and the trembling heat starting to build up in your stomach.

 

“I may be a virgin but that doesn’t mean I haven’t done my research,” he says, but all you hear is blah blah blah, his voice flowing in one ear and straight out the other. His hand rubs over your hip, his skin hot against your coolness, his fingers crooking beautifully inside you… And then they’re gone.

 

You whine, arching your back and spreading your legs and shifting around until his palm gives you a sharp slap to the ass, his voice chiding you for not staying still, for being too noisy.

 

“If anyone finds out we’re in here I’ll have to stop,” he says, and all you hear is stop and fuck, the last thing you want him to do is stop. You are now starting to realize why all the people you did this to seemed to have so much fucking fun, and you have completely changed your stance on not allowing things into your ass. You quite like things in your ass, as of right now.

 

Which is why you want his fingers back.

 

Something blunt and broad presses up against your hole and you turn your head back to look, but Kankri’s hands thread through your hair and tug you back against his chest, his smaller body fitting oddly against your own.

 

“Be still,” he murmurs, like you could move with him holding you so tight; you’re stretched wider than ever and as the slick, condom wrapped head of his cock slides into you, you let out the loudest whimper yet, trembling, your thighs shaking as his free hand grips your hips and pulls you back against him.

 

It’s a slow burn, being penetrated. It aches, makes you whine, makes you want to pull away but each time you’re prepared to tell him to fuck off he shifts one way, or moves a bit forward, and there’s this maddening spark of pleasure that you want more of. It comes and goes, taunting you, and finally you’re prepared to just shove him down and chase orgasm yourself- and you would, if his grip on your hair wasn’t so tight.

 

“Kan,” you moan, and he hushes you, presses against you, pulls your hair and shoves you forward till your chest and cheek are plastered to the wall, your body pinned between his hot, hot body and the scratchy wood. His hips are pressed flush to yours and though your pants are puddled around your ankles and your shirt is hiked up to your armpits, tangled around your body and stuck there, you can feel the wool of his sweater and the fabric of his slacks against your skin, despite the heat and thickness of his cock filling you up. The bastard didn’t even take off his goddamn clothes to fuck you.

 

All of that is forgiven as soon as he starts moving, though. He’s rough, impatient, his hips darting forward with quick, erratic little thrusts, and it’s obvious he’s never done this before but then again, technically neither have you and you’re too busy flying high to really care about giving out pointers right now. Because while his thrusts are sharp and quick and uneven, he’s driving his cock right up against your prostate and you can’t stop trembling.

 

“Fuckin’ fuck me,” you plead, yelping when he slaps you again, his hand curling tightly in your hair.

 

“Please don’t use such vulgar language,” he says, much to your incredulity, his voice still even despite his ragged breathing, “You are in a church- profanity is frowned upon.”

 

“But you just said it!”

 

“Well I’m not the heathen here, am I, Mr. Ampora,” he replies, voice sharp as sin as he punctuates his statement with a hard thrust; if he does that every time he calls you a heathen, you don’t think you’ll be having any more complaints.

 

His pace after that gets faster, harder; you can feel your cheek scraping up against the wall, feel drool dripping from your lips as he tugs your hair and forces your neck to arch, your body to curve towards him, but you can’t really think in straight lines anymore. Everything’s just this massive blur of _‘wow that feels fuckin fantastic’_ and  you close your eyes and moan out his name and reach a hand between your legs to start jerking yourself off, panting for breath.

 

“You are a desperate creature, aren’t you,” he murmurs, and his voice is doing that thing, the rolling thing where it washes over you and this is why you came to church over and over again- not for the shitty free coffee, not for the hot dad, it was him. Him, his voice, his body, the way he moved, the way he sounded when he read from the scripture books- you never paid attention to the content, only his gorgeous, gorgeous voice.

 

“I still don’t understand what’s so fascinating about sex,” he ponders, so calm even as he drives into you, pins you to the wall and fucks you hard, like none of this even phases him, “It’s a base desire that is rather easy to simply ignore. What about it has you cowtowing to its will so easily, Mr. Ampora?”

 

He thrusts in sharply, cockhead rubbing up and against the sensory hub of your prostate. You groan, fingers clawing weakly at the closet wall.

 

“What is it about this pleasure has you so willing to cast aside your dignity for even the slightest chance to feel it? It’s not so unique.”

 

You aren’t coherent enough to respond; you just drool against the wall, nothing but a limp, pleasure-weakened heap of a man, desperately jacking off as you chase your own orgasm. You wonder if you’ll like sex up the ass so much with anyone else, or if it’s just him.

 

“I should just give up this farce and leave you here to take care of yourself,” he says, and you whine, reaching behind you with your free hand to hook your fingers around his hip. You don’t want him to pull away from you, you don’t want him to leave, not when you’re so fucking close to finishing-

 

And instead of pulling away, he crushes you to the wall, his chest pressed against your back and his body trembling finely against yours, the racing of his heart clearly felt even through the thick fabric of his sweater. He’s such a hypocrite, pretending he’s unaffected, pretending that this doesn’t get him just as fucking hot as it gets you- you can fucking feel it on him.

 

“Fuck me,” you whimper, and this time he doesn’t chide you for your language; he just grips you by the hair and presses against you and thrusts into you with sharp, quick little movements, fucking into you deep and hard and fast. Between that and the hand you have on your cock, it’s no wonder you don’t last very long.

 

Within minutes, you’re spilling into your hand with a strangled cry, shuddering, clenching down tightly around him and he feels bigger as you get tighter, he feels more, and all you can do is gasp for breath and whine and try not to let your legs collapse out from underneath you. He’s not done yet, hips still bucking erratically into you, but your body is still tightening around him over and over as your orgasm washes through you, your hands quivering at the force of it.

 

It only takes a few seconds of this for him to stiffen, bucking his hips in hard once, twice, three times before he shoves in deep and goes still, his own body shaking hard. You can’t really feel it because of the condom, but you know he came, and you wish you could have seen his face.

 

His hand slowly disentangles from your hair, his grip leaves your waist, his softening cock pulls from your stretched ass; there’s a soft plop as the condom drops into the wastebin by the door, a jingle as Kankri does up his belt. Your legs give out and you slide down to the ground in a heap, draped limply over buckets and mops and cleaning supplies, your pants tangled around your ankles and your cum staining your thighs and hand.

 

When you turn to look at him, he hardly looks winded; there’s a flush to his cheeks, a slight bit of breathlessness to him, but that’s all that shows what he’d done to you, the only bit of evidence on his immaculate body. You’re jealous.

 

“I suggest you gather yourself up and make a timely exit,” he murmurs, eyeing your sprawled form with a strange glint to his eyes, “The cleaner stops by here every afternoon at three pm, which is approximately half an hour from now.”

 

Kankri’s eyes linger on your splayed form, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. You’re left a cum covered mess on the floor of a broom closet, fucked within an inch of your life and still hardly able to see straight. You’ve never been more content.

 

As you count down the minutes till you’re forced to get up and move, you consider; how long do you have to wait before goading him into reacting a second time?

 

 

 

 


End file.
